“We Have No King but the Emperor”

[A sermon based on John 19:14-15 for Good Friday; this is the third sermon in my Holy Week 2009 series Eavesdropping on Holy Week]

He stood there, the blood trickling down his bruised face, the purple robe hanging heavy on his shoulders, the taunts ringing in his ears. Somewhere, seemingly from very far away, he heard the voice of Pilate ring out, “Behold your King!” and the answering voice of the crowd, “Away with him! Crucify him!” Now it was Pilate again: “Shall I crucify your King?” and it was in response to that question that the Messiah, the Son of God, the Savior of the world, heard these words spoken, John tells us, by the “chief priests”: “We have no king but the emperor.”

I wonder if a hush fell over the crowd when those words were heard and as Pilate handed Jesus over to be crucified. I wonder that because the chief priests could hardly have uttered words that would have sounded any worse to Jewish ears with any sensitivity at all. After all, the ideal was that Israel was to have no king but God. True, Israel had for centuries had a human king but the Bible makes clear that having such a king was a concession by God to the desires of the people and the Bible also makes clear that, with rare exceptions, the monarchy in Israel was not a positive thing. Still, God had in a way redeemed the monarchy by promising that the Messiah would be a descendant of King David but didn’t that mean that the Messiah would be the ideal king sent by God?

So the chief priests were, in saying that they had “no king but the emperor”, declaring that God was not their King and that they were not prepared to receive the Messiah. Perhaps they weren’t consciously thinking about it that way—after all, their motive was to get rid of Jesus and whenever someone’s agenda is to get rid of somebody no exaggeration is too great if it serves the purpose; besides, they were playing mind games with Pilate, whom they had earlier pressured by reminding him that no “friend of the emperor” would tolerate the claims of a rival king and so by exaggerating their own claim to imperial loyalty they were tightening the screws on the Roman governor.

And yet…and yet…they said it, didn’t they? They, the religious leaders of their day, came right out and said, “We have no king but the emperor” which implies that God was not their King, although I’m sure that had someone pinned them down about it they would have said, “Oh, now, we meant that we have no ‘earthly’ king but the emperor,” but even that attitude would have indicated divided loyalties, wouldn’t it?

Divided loyalties…we all have them, don’t we? The question, though, is to whom do we give our ultimate allegiance and our ultimate loyalty? It is an appropriate question for this night, because it was earlier in the day on Good Friday that Pontius Pilate ordered that the inscription be placed above the head of Jesus as he hung on the cross that said, “This is the King of the Jews.” By our gathering here tonight—indeed, by our gathering to worship any time that we gather to worship—we affirm that the crucified Jesus Christ is our King; we affirm that “we have no King but Jesus.”

But what do we affirm with our lives? How do we say with our lives that we have no King but Jesus?

When we choose generosity over greed, we affirm that we have no King but Jesus.

When we choose sacrifice over security, we affirm that we have no King but Jesus.

When we choose grace over grudges, we affirm that we have no King but Jesus.

When we choose service over selfishness, we affirm that we have no King but Jesus.

When we choose giving over grasping, we affirm that we have no King but Jesus.

When we choose faith over fear, we affirm that we have no King but Jesus.

When we choose hope over hopelessness, we affirm that we have no King but Jesus.

If we choose the other options, aren’t we in effect choosing another King over Jesus?

Here on Good Friday, as we worship the King who emptied himself until he gave his very life and who loved so much that he died for the sake of it and who served to the point of complete sacrifice, it’s worth pondering whether we will honor our King by choosing, with his help, to be like he was.

Granted, if we do so choose we will look and sound different and odd. Spanish golfer Jose Maria Olazabal is a two-time winner of the Masters Tournament. The “z” in his last name is pronounced “th” and it is pronounced that way because of the development of the language in his region of Spain. But there is a legend—and it is a legend—that explains why that particular pronunciation developed. According to the legend, there was a Spanish king who, when he tried to pronounce the “z” sound, said “th” instead, so, out of respect for the king, the rest of the population adopted his pronunciation. As I said, it’s a legend, but the picture of an entire people adopting a variant pronunciation out of respect for their king is a riveting one.

Will we, out of respect and love and adoration of our King, adopt his “strange” and challenging ways? We have no king but Jesus. Will our lives reflect that truth?

“Lord, Are You Going to Wash my Feet?”

[A sermon based on John 13:1-17, 31b-35 for Maundy Thursday; this is the second sermon in my Holy Week 2009 series Eavesdropping on Holy Week]

“Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”

It is a question posed by Simon Peter as Jesus, who had already washed the feet of some of his disciples, approached Peter, a towel around his waist and a basin of water in his damp hands, his intention much clearer than the water that was sloshing around in the bowl.

And so the question posed by Simon Peter seems in the first place a silly question—I can’t help but wonder what kind of look Jesus gave Peter as he, having knelt before Peter with the basin and the towel, glanced up at his always talkative follower; was it a look that said “Now, that’s a silly question, Peter”?

But maybe Jesus gave Peter that warm and compassionate and tender look, that look of love and grace and mercy that should have melted the heart, even the hardest heart, of every one onto whose eyes it fell, because he knew that Peter was onto something and it was something that meant so much to both Jesus and Peter and to everybody else that would ever follow Jesus that it was probably going to have to be dealt with right then and there even though Peter wasn’t ready. It also has to be dealt with right here and now whether we’re ready or not.

Imagine Peter actually saying the words. I think it likely that his inflection would have been something like this: “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” by which he meant “Do you really think that you, my teacher and Lord, the one whom I believe to be the Christ, the Son of the living God, are going to wash my feet, when I am but your servant and am not fit to untie the laces of your sandals?” Peter, in other words, could not get his mind around the fact that his Master and Teacher would stoop to serve him like that, that he would condescend to give of himself like that.

Then Jesus said, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Jesus was challenging Peter to do something that most of us have a hard time doing—to accept what he was receiving from the hand of the Lord as a gift, knowing that it meant something vitally important but being willing to defer understanding until the time was right. Peter, who, again like many of us, could see things only as he saw them in the moment and could not imagine another explanation that was worth waiting for, responded, “You will never wash my feet.”

Perhaps Jesus sighed before he hit Peter between the eyes with the cold, hard truth: “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” When Peter heard that he responded with more impetuous words, words that might have been tinged with more than a little desperation: “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!” “If you must wash my feet for me to be part of what you are doing, then wash me all over because I want to be all in” was what Peter was saying.

Only he didn’t know what he was saying and he didn’t know what he was saying because the events had not yet happened that would enable him to understand. Yes, to be washed by Jesus meant to be all in with Jesus; to be washed by Jesus meant to be completely identified with Jesus; to be washed by Jesus meant to be joined with Jesus in Jesus’ kind of life and Jesus’ kind of love and Jesus’ kind of ministry—but Peter didn’t get that yet and he didn’t get it yet because Jesus had not been crucified yet. Unfortunately, too many of us don’t get it yet and we have much less excuse than Peter because we live on this side of the crucifixion and because we have the words of Jesus in black and white (and maybe red) in the holy book that we carry and read and study.

Now, Peter was on to something when he challenged Jesus’ intention to wash his feet; he was on to the fact that Jesus was his superior and his better in every way and that it was, in every way that someone from that culture in that time could have comprehended, improper for Jesus to wash Peter’s feet. Peter was also on to something when he asked Jesus to wash him all over if that was what it took for Peter to be a part of who Jesus was and a part of what Jesus was doing. But Peter was thinking about the water and the washing and not about what they meant; Jesus was thinking about what the water and the washing meant.

What did the water and the washing mean to Jesus and what do they mean to us? For Jesus to wash the disciples’ feet meant that he was a servant to them; when Jesus stooped down before his sinful and flawed followers to wash their feet it was a symbol of the greater stooping down that he was doing—he left his home in glory and emptied himself, becoming a servant who would serve so much that he would finally give up his life. The conclusion of the servant life that Jesus lived would conclude on the day after he washed his disciples’ feet when he would be nailed to the cross.

Listen to what Jesus said after he had finished washing the disciples’ feet:

Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord—and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. (vv. 12b-16)

And listen to what he said a little while later:

I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another. (vv. 34-35)

So when our feet are washed—when we are washed—by Jesus we receive the privilege and responsibility of washing the feet of our brothers and sisters; but what that means is that when we become caught up in what Christ has done for us on the cross—that he loved us enough that he stooped down so far as to die for us—we receive the privilege and the responsibility—and the ability!—to love each other so much that are willing to die for one another and it is that kind of love and service and sacrifice that will bear true witness to the world of who we are and, more importantly, of who Christ is.

Given that the chances that we will be compelled to die literally for each other are slim, how do we love each other in a sacrificial, Christ-affirming, self-emptying way? Here are a few suggestions.

1. “Adopt” a homebound person or someone living in a nursing or assisted living home.

2. Volunteer to be a tutor at the Boys & Girls Club.

3. Forgive somebody—even if you are absolutely, positively convinced that you were in the right and he or she was in the wrong.

4. Quit complaining about your own life and start encouraging others in theirs.

5. Try to see things from the other person’s perspective.

6. When you hear a brother or sister being criticized, step in and intervene, even it means taking the attack onto yourself.

They may seem like little things but they are the kinds of things that we find hard to do, aren’t they? The issue for us, though, is whether we will let Jesus wash our feet so that we can go wash others’ feet.

You see, when Peter said, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” he meant that he didn’t think he deserved it. When he said, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!” he meant that he wanted to belong to Jesus.

If we’re not careful, when we say, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” we might mean that we don’t want to be immersed in the kind of loving, sacrificial life that a disciple is called to live and when we say “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head” we won’t remember that to be immersed in Jesus is to be immersed in grace that leads to grace, in love that leads to love, in mercy that leads to mercy, and in sacrifice that leads to sacrifice.

[I pour water from a pitcher into a basin.] Listen to the water. Remember your baptism. Remember that Jesus has washed you. Remember what it all means. Remember that you are to love as he loved, that you are to give as he gave, that you are to serve as he served, that you are to sacrifice as he sacrificed—that you are to die as he died.

“Blessed is He Who Comes in the Name of the Lord”

[A sermon for Palm Sunday based on John 12:12-16; the sermon is the first in a Holy Week series entitled Eavesdropping on Holy Week]

My late great father, the corniest man not to appear on Hee-Haw who ever lived, loved to tell the story about the young man who wrote the following note to his sweetheart: “Darling, for you I would climb the highest mountain, I would swim the deepest sea, and I would cross the widest desert. And I’ll see you on Saturday night—as long as it doesn’t rain.”

Words, you see, may mean everything or they may mean nothing or they may mean something in between; it all depends on what stands behind them and on what follows after them. In the case of the young man in my father’s story, his words meant little because he lacked (1) sound intention and (2) corresponding actions. That is, his words of devotion were shown to be hyperbole, and gross hyperbole at that, by the fact that he had no intention of going to the trouble for his lady to which he swore he would go and by the fact that if it indeed rained on Saturday night he wouldn’t show up.

What words mean depends on the intent behind them and the intent behind them can often—maybe even usually—be seen in the actions that follow (or don’t follow) them.

If we were to describe the young man’s words mathematically, the formula might look like this: Faulty intentions + faulty actions = lying words.

I’m not at all sure that the same judgment could be rendered on the crowd that hailed the arrival of Jesus at Jerusalem on Palm Sunday; I’m not at all convinced that we can say that they were intentionally saying things that they did not mean and on which they did not intend to follow up. After all, we know that Jesus had developed a following during the few years of his ministry; we know furthermore that it was the custom for Passover pilgrims to greet rabbis as they entered the city for the festival; we know moreover that some people sometimes wanted to proclaim Jesus king.

It seems to me more accurate to say that the people were saying more than they knew they were saying—what they were saying was much truer than they could know but it was true in a different way than they thought. After all, as John informs us, “His disciples did not understand these things at first; but when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that these things had been done to him” (v. 16). If his disciples, if those who were closest to Jesus, did not understand, we can hardly expect the “crowds” to get it, can we?

What about us, though? Here we are as this people on this Palm Sunday in this place in this hour of worship and we are saying the same thing: “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord—the king of Israel!” Perhaps more significantly, when we leave this place we will go out into the world—into our homes, into our schools, into our workplaces, into our neighborhoods—and as we go we will go bearing the name “Christian” which means that we are committed to have the life of Christ lived out in our lives, so that in the things we do, the words we speak, and even the motives we have we are to show that we mean it when we say “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord—the king of Israel!”

Perhaps we would profit from considering the word “Blessed” in that sentence. The word means “O how happy”; the crowd was right in declaring that Jesus was “blessed” or was “happy” and they were correct in their statement of the reason that Jesus was blessed or happy—he was blessed or happy because he came in the name of God and because he was the King of Israel. Yes, they had the words right, but they did not have the meaning of the words right; when the crowds proclaimed Jesus “blessed” on that first Palm Sunday they thought that they knew what would make him blessed—he would exercise power and he would lead an overthrow of the Romans and he would place the nation in the position of prominence that it deserved; that to them was what it meant for Jesus to “come in the name of the Lord” and to be the “King of Israel.”

What the crowd didn’t notice—what they didn’t realize—was that Jesus came riding into Jerusalem not on an animal that would symbolize the kind of worldly royal power that they expected but rather on a beast that symbolized humility and submission and peace. What they didn’t know—what they could not know and what they could not have accepted had they known—was that for Jesus, to be “blessed” and to come “in the name of the Lord” and to be the “King of Israel” meant that he would give himself up in obedience to his Father and in service to people, that he would empty himself and become a Suffering Servant, that he would humble himself even to death, and that he would finally be designated King when a Roman representative placed a sign saying so over his head as he hung on a cross.

But we do know, don’t we? We know the whole story; we know how it ended in Jesus’ case; we know how it is supposed to continue through Jesus in our lives. So this morning when we affirm “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord—the King of Israel”, what are our intentions? Having affirmed it, what will our actions be? Will we be driven by motivations that bless Jesus, that make Jesus happy, and that please Jesus? Will we carry out actions that bless Jesus, that make Jesus happy, and that please Jesus?

Since when we talk about what we should do and not do it’s too easy to give ourselves credit or to slide over into legalism, I want to pose the harder and I think more Christian question: what are our motivations?

Are we motivated by fear or by faith? Jesus rode into Jerusalem full of faith even though he knew that his journey would end at the cross. He knew full well what was coming and he knew what it would cost him; we know that because of the prayer that he prayed in the Garden on Thursday night: “Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me”—but still he kept moving forward, because faith rather than fear shaped his life.

Look into your heart and answer this question: are you driven by fear or by faith? You are driven by fear if you are always thinking of protecting yourself, if you’re always thinking of how words or events affect you, and if you’re always willing to sacrifice your principles in order to avoid painful or stressful situations or confrontations. You are driven by faith if you are willing to put yourself at risk if obedience to God calls for it, if you are more concerned about what people are going through than you are with what they are putting you through, and if you seek to live out grace and peace and mercy no matter what it costs you.

“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” we say—but are we displeasing him because we are motivated by fear—which he was not— or are we pleasing him because we are motivated by faith—like he was?

Are we motivated by grasping or by giving? Jesus, Paul tells us in Philippians, “Did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped”; Jesus, as the old gospel song reminds us, did not “call 10,000 angels to destroy the world and set him free.” No, Jesus, Paul tells us in Philippians, “Humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross”; Jesus, as the old gospel song reminds us, “died alone for you and me.” Jesus did not grasp and take and seize; Jesus gave and offered and emptied.

Look into your heart and answer this question: are you driven by grasping or by giving? You are driven by grasping if you most often think of what’s in it for you, if you usually think that you deserve better than you’re getting or more than others are getting, or if you find yourself demeaning or devaluing the gifts and accomplishments of others. You are driven by giving if you put the needs of others before your own needs and especially before your own wants, if you think of the good things in your life or in someone else’s life as good gifts from a good God and thank God regardless of who receives them, and if you not only say that is more blessed to give than to receive but you actually feel more joy in giving than you do in receiving.

“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” we say—but are we displeasing him because we are motivated by grasping—which he was not— or are we pleasing him because we are motivated by giving—like he was?

Are we motivated by salvation or by sacrifice? Jesus did not come to serve but to served; Jesus did not come to save himself but to give himself as a ransom for many. Jesus did not, as he was challenged to do as he hung on the cross, “save himself”; rather, he gave up his spirit and died. Moreover, Jesus said that if we sought to save our lives we would lose them but that if we lose our lives we would save them.

So look into your heart and answer this question: are you driven to save yourself or to sacrifice yourself? You are driven to save yourself if you want others to do for you but you don’t want to do for others, if the Christian life is to you all about you being blessed and you getting to heaven and not about you blessing others and you showing them a little bit of heaven, and if you either habitually make a conscious decision not to give up anything for anybody else or if you just never give a thought to giving up something for somebody else. But you are driven to sacrifice yourself if you are almost never looking to have something done for you but you are constantly looking to do something for somebody else, if you look so forward to heaven that you don’t worry about losing or leaving this life just so long as you can love Jesus and love others while you’re here, and if you pay conscious attention to the hurts that people around you are experiencing so that you can share grace where it’s needed.

“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” we say—but are we displeasing him because we are motivated by saving ourselves—which he was not— or are we pleasing him because we are motivated by sacrificing ourselves—like he was?

Yes, we have said the words just they did all those years ago: “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord—the king of Israel!” But do our hearts show that we really mean it? Are we motivated by his kind of faith, giving, and sacrifice? What do our lives show about our motivation and thus about our hearts?

Tinged Praise: A Prayer for Palm Sunday

We praise you today, O Lord, but our praise is a tinged praise.

Our praise is tinged with sorrow because we know that your triumphal entry will give way to your stumbling walk to Calvary.

Our praise is tinged with shock because we know that the voices that proclaimed you king will give way to voices that will clamor for your crucifixion.

Our praise is tinged with dismay because we know that the disciples who welcomed you will give way to disciples who will betray you and deny you.

Our praise is tinged with grief because we know that we who praise you here today helped put you on the cross.

Our praise is tinged with fear because we know from experience that we are also capable of betraying and denying you.

Our praise is tinged with doubt because we don’t know if we can follow you as we should all the way to the cross—and beyond.

And so, O Lord, we praise you, but our praise is a tinged praise.

Please accept it anyway. By your grace forgive us. By your Spirit strengthen us.
Amen.

The Greatest Game and Good Friday

Once, when I was about ten years old, I was confronted with an ethical dilemma: our church was holding its annual Vacation Bible School, which took place in the evenings, and my Little League team had a game scheduled on one of those nights. I remember agonizing over my choice, a choice that really was mine since my parents left the decision up to me.

Finally, I decided that Jesus—and only Jesus—trumped baseball and I went to Vacation Bible School. It’s hard to say whether I was motivated by a sincere devotion to Jesus or whether I was driven by a legalistic moralism that caused me to fear that if Jesus came back at 7:30 on that particular evening, it was better to be making some craft out of popsicle sticks at the church than to be scratching my nose in right field.

When confronted with the same choice the next two years, I chose to play baseball and to let the church kids drink their Kool-Aid without me; honesty compels me to report that one of the reasons for my change of heart was that in those later years I was playing for a much better team whose games actually mattered in the standings.

I tell that story to make it clear that I completely understand the quandary in which some Christian baseball fans find themselves this year, when several Major League teams, my beloved Atlanta Braves among them, are scheduled to play their home opener on Good Friday.

Should Christians go to that game that is being played on one of the holiest of all the holy days?

They should if they want to.

But I wouldn’t—and I wouldn’t even if I were not the pastor of a church. And I wouldn’t because I don’t want to. Good Friday just means too much to me.

In the beloved church of my childhood I never heard about Holy Week; indeed, as I have explained elsewhere, we had no inkling that there was any such thing as a Christian calendar. Holy Week observance at our church consisted of an Easter egg hunt on the Saturday before Easter, of which I have such fond memories as one of the men killing a big snake in the field where we were about to hung eggs right before we went into that field to hunt eggs and the children going through the field where the eggs were hidden in a manner akin to those locusts that you used to see in cartoons back when cartoons were worth watching, and a Sunrise Service, a breakfast, and the regular 11:00 a.m. service on Easter morning, when I suppose the resurrection of Jesus was mentioned, although I don’t remember, which is my fault and not Preacher Bill’s.

Somewhere along the way—during my seminary years, I think—I came upon the traditions of Holy Week: the celebration of the triumphal entry on Palm Sunday that is tempered by the knowledge of what is to come later in the week, the fellowship meal and memorial supper and talk of humble service illustrated by Jesus’ washing of the disciples’ feet—and the twin specters of betrayal and denial—on Maundy Thursday, the horror and darkness—and the wonder and grace—of Good Friday, and the raucous unbridled joy that accompanies the announcement “Jesus Christ is risen” on Easter Sunday. Over the years I have come to treasure those experiences of worship.

On the one hand, I know that all of time is holy time because God is in all of it; I know that the reality of the crucifixion and resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ is a part of our lives every minute of every day no matter where we are and what we are doing; I know that being present at a Good Friday service or any other service of worship does not make one a better or more devoted Christian than one who is not present.

But on the other hand, I have come to see the great value in having “special” holy days on which we intentionally focus on the core realities of our faith and on the defining relationship of our lives; the truth is that we need such times to step aside from our routine and to bracket ourselves off a bit from everything else and to focus as fully as we can with the help of the Holy Spirit on the crucifixion and resurrection of our Lord as we do during Holy Week or on his incarnation and second coming as we do during Advent.

I believe that there is value in adopting such a discipline and sticking with it; I believe that it is a good thing to say “Good Friday is the day that the Church especially commemorates the crucifixion of Jesus which, coupled with his resurrection, is the event that stands at the absolute heart of our faith and our life and therefore I will honor it through my worship and I will allow nothing short of calamity to keep me from it.”

This much I know: were I to cease being a pastor on Wednesday of Holy Week, I would nonetheless be present in a Maundy Thursday service, a Good Friday service, and an Easter Sunday service somewhere and, if I could not find a Baptist church holding such services, I would gladly participate in them in whatever congregation would welcome me. I just can’t personally help it; moreover, I feel so strongly about it that I make no apology for passionately urging my parishioners to worship on Good Friday—the congregation on Good Friday night should be as large as the one we’ll have on Easter Sunday morning, but unless my new congregation is different than the others I have served, it won’t be, I think because (a) it’s Friday night (b) people are uncomfortable being intentionally somber as a Good Friday service typically (and appropriately) leads us to be and (c) many Baptist churches have not traditionally and historically focused on Good Friday.

But I’ll keep trying.

Here at the end I want to confess my hypocrisy. When our Good Friday service concludes at around 8:00 p.m., I’ll go home and either watch the Braves’ home opener on television or listen to it on the radio, so I can’t claim that I lay all “worldly” or “secular” amusements aside on Good Friday. Maybe I should.
Still, if I have to make a choice between Good Friday worship and attending a baseball game, I’ll choose to worship.

“It is finished” just sounds more significant in the scheme of things than “Play ball” and I need, on that one holy night, to acknowledge it.

Sharing Happiness at the Happiest Place on Earth

Our daughter Sara, who recently finished her degree requirements at Mercer University, is an intern at Walt Disney World in Orlando. Here she is making a happy little girl even happier by trading pins with her.

It's a magical life.

Conversions

Dear Readers,

After much thought and contemplation, I must make four important announcements today.

First, I have transferred my baseball allegiance from the Atlanta Braves to the New York Yankees. I can no longer resist the Dark Side; I'm just not as strong as Luke Skywalker.

Second, I have given up on the Georgia Bulldogs football team and am ready to pledge my devotion to the mighty Florida Gators. Maybe it's because Fitzgerald looks like a swamp these days due to our heavy rains, but I have decided that it is indeed great to be a Florida Gator.

Third,I have decided to stop resisting the All-American urge to embrace and adore celebrity and exhibitionism and thus I am going to replace my previous pledge never to watch "reality" television with a new pledge to watch every "reality" program that I can, even if I have to DVR them.

Fourth, I have concluded that I should turn in my Baptist ministerial credentials so that I can embrace and seek a ministerial role in another, more interesting tradition; I have not decided between Hasidic Judaism, Rastafarianism, Scientology, and Dawkinsian Atheism.

Your fellow traveler,

Michael Ruffin

P.S. Please note the date on which this was posted before sending threatening emails.